The 1st Hunger Games - A New Era Dawns
by President Snowflake
Summary: "I'd figured the districts wouldn't play nice even after we won the war, but executing their leaders only confirmed it. Killing adults serves no purpose. Most of them can retain some sense of dignity, can hide their fear, make it appear as though they are dying for a greater cause." "And your solution?" "My dear president. We simply kill the children instead." (rating may change)


**Orion Hausler, President of Panem**

This room is cold, and completely dark save the soft glow that emits from the screen hanging on the black wall. The control panel in front of me is silver, cool to touch, and the few chairs scattered throughout the room are plain, grey, and metal. My tailbone throbs from prolonged contact with the seat; no soft cushions or sleek armrests here, not like what the president's mansion contains. No, it was made clear from the moment I entered this room: here is not a place for relief and comfort. It is for harsh, merciless justice.

My fingernails dig deeply into my thighs as, onscreen, movement occurs. A door opens into the bleak cell the camera films and in march a large group of people. One, two, three, _twenty-four_. I know exactly how many there are. I flew to each and every district, looked every citizen in the eye and made my decision. _There. Those two. The woman in dark brown and the man with the missing arm. _Each district's very own president and vice-president. The leaders of the rebellion; the ones that were meant to steal my job and take my life. But they failed. Foolish of the districts to ever think that they could hide their commanders from the Capitol. From _me_. To most, they may look like average citizens, but I can always tell. That haughty glimmer in their eyes, that confident spark that tells of the power they once wielded – it always gives them away.

The prisoners come to a halt just as the last one enters, forming a line across the room of the twenty-four most despicable men and women in Panem. Now through the doors come twenty-four of Panem's finest, guards in crisp white uniforms that contrast sharply with the solid black of the guns in their hands. Some are limping, others barely concealing grimaces as pain flares up with every step they take. Most are still recovering from injuries they received in battle, but no matter the degree of their wound, each and every one jumped at this opportunity when I presented it to them. They have the honour of bringing this nation back to peace. And they have the chance to take revenge, for every dead relative, friend and co-worker they ever knew.

Unlike their stumbling prisoners, the soldiers keep the rhythm of their march nearly perfect, and the sound of footsteps ceases all at once as each guard comes to a stop in front of their respective charge. The dark wall behind the rebels looks the same as every other, but instead of plaster and wood, it's made from a special, spongy material developed some time ago, designed to absorb bullets rather than repel them. At the time, I hadn't thought it useful for much – but in situations such as this, it is perfect. No public execution for these rebels, oh, no; the risk of turning these traitors into martyrs is too great. Better to spirit them away from their homes, hide them out here, underground, and conduct the execution in an orderly fashion. Of course, the citizens of the districts will still know what went on, but this way, no last words shall be said, no final commands for their followers or ending insults for their enemies. It will be as though the rebellion never took place.

"Wait." The guards have their guns outstretched, ready to use, yet they pause as my voice echoes through the room they stand in. I keep my finger on the intercom button. "Remove their hoods."

Without question, the soldiers comply, each marching forward and roughly ripping the bags off of the prisoner's heads. My steel grey gaze darts to each and every rebel's face, searching for . . . what? Fear? Guilt? Regret? It is pointless, in any case; I should have guessed the traitors would be more skilled at keeping their emotions contained. And yet, behind each pair of hardened eyes, a palpable vortex of rage waits. Rage at the Capitol. Rage at me. Even after all the people they murdered, all the lives they ruined and destruction they caused, their twisted minds still find ways to pin the blame on others. It _disgusts_ me.

"Citizens of the districts." I have to fight to keep my tone steady; any breach detected over the intercom, any indication of anger in my voice will be taken as a weakness by these people. It will seem as if I care enough about their actions to hate them, and that is exactly the opposite of what I want; to quench this rebellion, and all remaining thoughts of any future revolt, I must stamp the flames out all at once, and give no indication that they ever affected this great country in the first place. "You know for what crimes you are here. But let it be known that your attempt at–" I pause almost unnoticeably, thinking over my words; using the term "rebellion" would not be wise, "–_anarchy_was futile. The nation is rebuilding, and things will be as they were once more. You will be forgotten, your misguided ideals disregarded, and life will go on."

"_Sweet child, sweet child, life will go on._

_But never forget that we've reached a new dawn._

_If life's wheel stops, dead in its tracks,_

_Always remember your parents' acts."_

My skin starts to burn, burn white-hot with uncontrollable fury. _How dare–? How could–?_ But my mind is raging, chaotic, unable to form a coherent thought. All I can hear is that song, that song sung by one – but now all the rebels start to join in, and playing out for me onscreen are twenty-four men and women standing proud and singing.

"_Sweet child, sweet child, carry our goal._

_Save the districts from the Capitol's control._

_Always dream of a better day,_

_Where you've killed the beast we fight today."_

"Do it." My finger slides across the intercom button, nearly slipping off; I don't feel any pain, and yet at some point, my hands formed fists, nails driving deep into the flesh of my palms and coating everything in warm, slick blood. "Do it now!" No further thoughts of monitoring my tone, watching my emotions; this is it, I want them _dead_. The guards ready their guns and, individually, each begins to fire. I'd ordered it like this originally, ordered it so I could look every rebel in the eye as they died, so I could see that last millisecond between life and death when their fear truly surfaced. But now, my gaze is focused solely on the woman in the middle. The one who seems to look straight at me, straight at the camera, even though she shouldn't be able to see it. The one who never flinches, even after the man next to her is shot in the head, splattering her with blood and brain matter. The one who began the song.

The soldier in front of her has his gun lifted high, fully prepared to shoot, yet he cannot resist spitting one final curse at his rebel charge. Because of her, he's stuck in a wheelchair; even the Capitol's doctors can do nothing to remedy this. And he hopes hell is ready, because for her, they'll have to pull out all the stops.

But then, right as he prepares once more to shoot, the woman moves. Not a large gesture, not a desperate bid for freedom, but the wrinkles beside her eyes ruffle, her lip twitches and she _smiles_. A condescending smile, as though she believes we're all children, and this is just a game she's allowing us to believe we're winning.

"Wait!" But I've failed to press the intercom button this time, and no one onscreen can hear me. So I watch as the soldier in the wheelchair shoots her, forever immortalising her smile. She showed no hint of fear; in fact, she died thinking she'd won. Even though the man missed, having not entirely angled the gun properly to account for their vast difference in height; the bullet plowed right through her jugular instead and with all the blood spraying from the wound, it must have hurt more than a clean shot to the head. But she still smiles. She will smile forever.

I'm barely aware of the rest of the executions as they take place, too focused on the puddle of blood in the centre of the room and the corpse that lies within. The smiling corpse. Forever smiling.

The last rebel leader is shot and the guards shove their weapons back into their holsters before turning and marching out. Not as perfectly in time as they were entering, though; a few look positively giddy with their fulfilled vengeance, others are in danger of falling over due to prolonged exertion on their injuries. The man in the wheelchair needs the help of another two soldiers to push him out; his wheels cannot navigate through the sea of splayed limbs and shattered skulls.

I sit back, my spine touching the chair's metal splat for the first time today. The pressure feels out of place, as though my muscles aren't ready to relax yet, are still pushing me to the edge of my seat. Yet there is nothing more to wait for. It is done.

Then why does it feel as if I've accomplished absolutely nothing?

"Sir?"

I jump, the sudden, soft voice so different from the explosive bedlam of the gunshots. It's almost reminiscent of the rebels' tones as they sung . . .

"Sir?" Daelianne Botterwurth inches her chair forward, entering my peripheral vision. One hand is held to the tiny headset in her ear, and other reaching forward to take my own fingers in their grasp. I allow the gesture, forcing myself to relax, only to realise I was just making fists again. Four deep, crescent-moon gashes line my palm, steadily dripping blood. Ever the wise vice-president, Daelianne doesn't mention the injuries; she always understands, always knows when I want to be left alone to grieve. So why is she talking now?

"Sir, I'm so sorry, but I've just received an update from Voros Juker."

The head of Technical Security? "What is it?" My voice sounds more strained than I'd like it too, as though my throat is closed and I've just been crying. Or am about to cry. And that would be a sign of weakness.

"He was just double-checking our connection to the cell camera. Apparently, someone hacked the feed."

"What?!" I nearly throw myself from the chair, rising and whirling around to face Daelianne. "Who? How? Did they . . .?" My mind is racing too fast for my mouth to keep up. _Was it the rebels? It must have been. Who else? Then why . . . oh, God. It was all a fabrication. They filmed an execution, and played that out for me to see while they spirited off the rebels! No, no, what about my voice over the intercom? What about the soldiers? I knew them, handpicked them, the rebels couldn't possibly fool me. Could they? No, they could; they're crafty, and now they're loose again, out there right _now _and-_

"Sir." Daelianne takes my hand once more, which is shaking uncontrollably along with the rest of my body. "Sir, look at me." My eyes, darting to every corner of the room as if I might find the escaped rebels hiding in the shadows, come to a stop once they meet Daelianne's pink gaze. "It's not the rebels. Juker's working on tracking the hacker down now, but he's certain it's someone in the Capitol."

That doesn't mean anything. No district citizens are allowed to set foot in the city, but still, they could be in hiding, purposely waiting after the rebellion as a sort of backup plan for the districts. "But the feed . . . The executions . . ."

Daelianne, having grown used to my faltering speech and turbulent thought process, is able to understand what I mean. "That was all real, sir. The footage wasn't tampered with at all. We have twenty-four soldiers to confirm it."

It takes me a moment to fully register her words, but when I do, it feels as if someone cut my strings; all of a sudden, the anxious adrenaline rushes out of my veins, leaving an exhausted, hollow husk behind. I collapse back into my empty chair, wearily looking back up at Daelianne. "You're sure?"

"Positive, sir."

Thank God. The execution may not have been as consoling as I thought it would be, but the thought of those rebels on the loose is far, far worse. Unconsciously, my mind wanders back to the woman who started the song and I clench my fists once more, only to stop as the sting of the previous cuts finally registers. _Don't get distracted. You still have a problem here._ "So why was the feed hacked?"

"Juker's not entirely sure, sir, but for all intents and purposes, it seems as though the hacker just wanted to . . ." Daelianne hesitates on the last word, a grimace twitching at the corners of her lips. "Watch."

It doesn't make any sense. We purposely made the executions private to both stop the districts from getting any ideas and save the Capitol citizens the pain of having to witness anymore violence. "And the identity of this mysterious hacker?"

"Juker's still working on it, sir. He says he should have them soon."

"Send a team out to bring this person in. I want to know who they are and what they want."

* * *

The man's fingers never stop moving. As far as a Capitol citizen, his appearance is relatively normal; long, black hair piled tightly into a bun directly on the top of his head, dark makeup around the eyes, a series of curling tattoos etched into his skin at seemingly random intervals. The only things that stand out are his fingers. Even handcuffed to the desk in front of him, his hands never stop dancing along what little of the table's surface he can reach. The _tap, tap, tap_ of his nails against metal is audible here in the observation room, and while I find it relatively easy to tune out, I can tell it's irritating both Daelianne and Voros.

"So this is our hacker," I mutter, staring hard through the one-way mirror separating us from the civilian. "What have you dug up on him?"

"Name: Yoriq Chentanko." Voros' tone is mechanic, as always, and straight to the point. "Age: 22. Currently unemployed. Address: 681 Fro-"

I wave a hand dismissively; none of this information is of any interest to me. What I need to know is, "Rebel connections?"

Voros stares at me for a moment, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Finally, he pushes his decorative spectacles further up his nose and continues, "None that we could find. The browsing history we found on his computer is . . . _disturbing, _to say the least, but there are no signs of attempted contact with the rebels. Nor is there anything on his phone. And given his behaviour when tapping the execution feed, I believe it is safe to assume that Mr Chentanko here is not in league with any district citizens."

_His behaviour when tapping the execution feed._ True, he may have done nothing to aid the rebel leaders, but nevertheless, I know something else is going on. No hacker who could infiltrate government computers would do so just to "watch". This Yoriq Chentanko has other motives; motives I intend to discover.

The clicking of the hacker's nails against the desk ring in my ears even as I turn away from the window. "I want to speak with him." I take care to purposely avoid Daelianne's concerned gaze. Though I'd like to think her worry is merely a product of my wish to interact with a criminal, I know better. Her slender blue eyebrows have remained furrowed in anxiety ever since my reaction to the execution earlier today. My lips form a grimace just at the thought. I am the president of Panem, leader of crowds sick of following, captain in a sea of anarchy – weakness is not an option. And yet time and time again, I've found myself unable to control my emotions. Daelianne has been present for almost all of these lapses in restraint, and it's beginning to grow embarrassing. What does she truly think of me, behind that mask of innocent concern? How long before she begins to question my capabilities of running a country?

However, neither Daelianne nor Voros argue as I step out of the observation room and stride a short ways down the narrow corridor outside before I reach the door to the interrogation room. The face scanners beep, flashing momentarily before confirming my identity, and the heavy, metal door swings inward.

The tapping of the man's nails stops at once. Silence rules the room as, for a moment, the two of us merely stare, each sizing the other up. His eyes are entirely black, no hint of whites or irises; one of the more unsettling fashion trends that has cropped up within the Capitol. It makes me feel as though I'm staring into the eyes of some enormous bug.

The hacker cocks his head to side, a glimmer in his eyes as though he can sense my unease. Then he smiles. "Took you long enough."

I frown, every muscle tensing at his words, his expression. As though he was hoping – _planning_ – for all this. _Who are you, Yoriq Chentanko?_ "Excuse me?"

His wrists may be bound to the table, but his legs are free, and the young man kicks at the chair across from him. "Well, come on, sit down." Another grin, showing teeth this time; teeth filed to disturbing points. "Don't let me stop you."

Pain flares in my palms as my nails grate against their previous cuts. By inviting me to sit, he has acknowledged the fact that I've been too apprehensive to approach him, yet doing so now would only be an act of submission. Instead, I merely narrow my gaze, swiftly closing the door behind me. "Yoriq Chentanko." Each syllable of his name is carefully emphasised, meant to bore deep into his mind – _you see how much we know?_ "I presume you know why you are here."

"Oh, obviously." The man leans as far back in his chair as he can and grins lazily. I don't buy it for one second. He may be good at putting on an act, may excel at maintaining this cool, unfazed façade, but his eyes glimmer with a cold malice even the colour alterations cannot hide. It's always the eyes that give them away. "But do _you_ know why I'm here?"

Fake or not, this nonchalant behaviour is beginning to get on my nerves. That, and the nasal, condescending tone of the hacker's voice. He's acting far more arrogant than any man chained to a desk in the middle of an interrogation room has any right to be. "Do _I _know why you're here?" My gaze never wavers from his as I slowly move forward, ignoring the chair to lean against the table instead. "I'd hope so, considering I ordered your arrest."

"Mm, well, hope is a funny thing, isn't it, Mr President?" I can't help the stiffening in my shoulders at his words, and Chentanko notes it with a smirk. "Fragile, intangible – and yet it nearly destroyed our entire country." With a sudden burst of energy, he stands and shoves his chair backwards, leaning towards me so that our noses nearly touch. "Tell me, do you want another rebellion?"

His question is so ridiculous that, for a moment, I'm shocked into silence. "Of course not," I spit back.

"Then crush the hope."

I don't know if he's intentionally speaking in riddles, but his response – no, no, _command_, it was clearly intended as such – grates against my ears and makes my blood boil. What right does this, this _criminal, _who is barely old enough to call himself a man, have to question my judgement? "It is all under control," I say, my voice deadly quiet as I try to maintain an even tone. "The leaders have been executed, as you saw when you hacked our feed. Which is why you are here."

"Please. I wanted to be here for my own reasons, or your so-called "Technical Security" wouldn't have ever caught me. Covering my tech tracks is something I can do in my sleep."

I stare at the man in front of me, completely floored by his egotism. He talks about government computers and cameras as though they're children's toys, to be snatched easily away and played with at will. My immediate reaction is, of course, disdain, paired with scorn and a heavy dose of irritation. But underneath it all, I'm furious to realise a part of me actually believes him; at least, believes he has an ulterior motive for being here. _He's part of the rebels, _I think, my heart sinking. _They're back and ready to restart a war. For all I know, this could even be one of their-_

"Now that is a funny thought." Chentanko has relaxed slightly, though he's still staring at me with that irksome smirk upon his lips. "You think I'm a rebel? An obvious assumption on the part of a paranoid president," he adds as I open my mouth to demand how he guessed.

"_Paranoid_?" The word is nearly a growl. "I am _not _paranoid."

"Then you're a fool." All at once, the playfulness disappears from Chentanko's tone, his mouth twisting into a hard, thin line. "Intelligent people know to be paranoid during times of crisis."

I don't know if I could possibly channel any more fury into my glare. "The crisis has _passed_."

"Really? So, you're telling me that back in the districts, people aren't going to make martyrs out of the leaders you executed? People aren't still carrying hope? People aren't still singing that song our rebels were so fond of?" I can feel the vein in my forehead twitch at his words, but this time, his smile is humourless. "They still believe they can win, Mr President. Because you haven't destroyed them."

"That's what you got yourself arrested for? So you could tell me to wipe the rest of the districts off the map just like Thirteen." _Just like Thirteen_ . . . if this man can truly do as he claims and hack our systems all while going by unnoticed, then how much does he truly know about the bombing?

"Please, don't waste my time being stupid." My hand twitches, as though yearning to form a fist to smash that patronising look off his face. It takes all of my willpower to refrain from doing so. "Obliterating the districts would only cause the Capitol suffering in the end. We rule them, yes, but goodness knows we could never get along without them."

His words hit a bit too close to home. Every time I blink, a new catastrophe headline pops up behind my eyelids. _Duskendawn Power Plant still held by District 5 rebels, siege underway: Capitol plunged into total darkness. Massive food shortages ravage the city, no fresh produce or meat coming in from outside. Rebel invasion imminent, evacuations impossible due to District 6 controlling the trains._

Chentanko watches me relive these memories, almost as though he can see them himself. "No, I don't want them eliminated. I want them beaten into submission."

The chill in his tone seems to lower the room's temperature by a dozen degrees. It's such a stark contrast to his earlier behaviour, even I can't help but pause at the change. What could a man his age possibly know about punishing the districts? I don't want to ask, am suddenly finding myself put off by the intensity his eyes now hold. I'll call Voros in here instead, get him to dish out the hacker's punishment; he's more familiar with the justice system for virtual crimes than I am. I could leave, breathe easy – and yet, for some reason, I find myself staying, straining to listen as Chentanko opens his mouth once more.

"I'd figured they wouldn't play nice even after we won, but the execution only confirmed it. Killing adults serves no purpose. Most of them can retain some sense of dignity, can hide their fear, make it appear as though they are dying for a greater cause."

The fact that he feels the need to specify killing _adults_ sets me on edge. "The point?"

"My dear president. We simply kill the children."

* * *

"Sir, I don't like this." Daelianne nearly has to jog to keep up with me as I stride down the long hall. "This man is a criminal and, more importantly, I think something's wrong with his mind. Are you honestly considering-"

"I'm not considering anything yet," I tell her sharply, adjusting my grip on the hacker's previously confiscated laptop. "I just want to see what he has in mind."

"Why?"

_Because he's right. Because killing the leaders didn't stop the rebellion. The districts will go to war once more. And we can't survive another. Peace is always better, no matter what the cost._ But the words stick in my throat even as I open my mouth to respond. Because they're lies – or, not lies exactly, but not the whole truth. A president should remain just, unbiased, level-headed in times of crisis, yet I can't stop thinking about revenge. The districts took my children, all three of them. Corra, only just seventeen, yet she signed up to fight all the same, even though I told her time and time again she didn't have to. She said it was her own desire, to protect the innocent citizens of her city. And the twins . . . Bradely and Elle were only eleven, spending their days playing in the small, fenced-off gardens in front of our house. They should have been completely secure. But that rebel from 6 who had somehow managed to sneak into the city still shot them while attempting to assassinate me.

It was all because of me. That was the worst of it. Perhaps not Corra's death, necessarily, but Bradely and Elle would never have been in danger had I chosen a different profession. Both would be alive and well, safe in my arms, laughing and smiling like b-before. That day was the day I nearly gave up on the war, nearly surrendered all that I had to the rebels. If taking their children will do the same, than all the better. But more than anything, I want them to feel the pain.

Daelianne is still looking at me as though she expects an answer – and is afraid of what that answer might be – but she opens the door to the interrogation room all the same. Chentanko refused to tell me anymore about what he had in mind until I brought him his confiscated computer; apparently, all the documents are on here. The fact that this man might have been planning something like this for so long, since before the war was even over, is worrisome, but nevertheless, I want to see what he has in mind. Just in case it's useful.

"Oh, my beautiful baby." The hacker's whole face seems to light up as he catches sight of the computer. "Your people better not have done anything to it. I swear, if I see a single scratch-"

"Might I remind you, Mr Chentanko, that you are in no position to make threats." The man may have ideas I want, but his ego and misplaced sense of superiority I can do without.

"Of course." He grins as I approach, though the smile fades as I place the computer on the edge of the table, far out of his reach. "What are you doing?"

"Ms Botterwurth will be opening whatever files you say you need. You yourself, however, will not be touching the computer. Need I remind you why you are here?"

"Still worried I'm some sort of rebel hacker, eh?" The playful smirk is back on his lips almost immediately.

"You did say intelligent people know when to be paranoid."

"Well, I wasn't exactly referring to you at the time, but yes, I suppose I did."

Daelianne slams her palm down on the table, surprising both of us. "Mr Chentanko, this is the president of Panem. You have no right to speak to him this way." She glares furiously at the man in the chair, though I can't tell if her anger is truly because of his insult or due to the ominous suffering he's planned out for the districts. For my sensible, level-headed vice president, she's making it awfully clear how much she hates this man.

"Daelianne, it's all right." I put a hand on her shoulder, feeling a peculiar rush of joy at taking on the role of reassuring. Normally it's the other way around, and it's nice to know that my vice president isn't the emotional control master I always made her out to be. "Though I agree he could do with some more respect," I add, with a pointed glance in Chentanko's direction.

The man splays his fingers out in a gesture of submission. "My apologies, Oh Great and Powerful one. Now, the computer?"

Daelianne maintains her glare even as she turns towards the screen. "Password?" she asks curtly.

Chentanko spells it out for her as I try to mentally keep track of the characters. "justICE4cHEATs?" I ask when Daelianne's fingers stop typing. "What's it mean?"

"It's a website slogan," Daelianne mutters under her breath.

Chentanko raises an eyebrow, suddenly appearing very interested in my curly-haired vice president. "You know about District DamNation? What's your username?"

"I've heard of it," Daelianne snaps back. "I'm not on it."

"Bullshit. No one's ever just "heard" of District DamNation." Chentanko's smiling widely now, almost as though he's laughing at Daelianne, who is determinedly ignoring the hacker, instead choosing to glare furiously at the computer screen.

I glance from one to the other, frowning at this sudden, new development. I've never heard of this "District DamNation" website, not that I'm very technically adept, but the fact that Daelianne knows about it – not to mention how much it seems to anger her – peaks my curiosity. "What's-"

"Which file do I open?" Daelianne snarls at the hacker.

"You can't guess?" When the woman glares at him, so intensely I'm surprised he doesn't feel physical pain, Chentanko relents. "All right, all right. The one called _Project Hunger Games_."

"Hunger Games?" I'm not sure which word throws me off more.

Chentanko smiles. "It's a bit more subtle than "Death Games". Also, has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"What's the "Games" part got to do with anything?"

"You'll see."

The file comes to life as it finishes loading, and I'm greeted with a document that seems to never end. Daelianne scrolls through, her grimace growing tighter and tighter as she flashes by each new page. A map of some outdoor region. A design for what seems to resemble an ancient chariot. A list of what look like names, with rebel connections mentioned underneath. I can't help but feel awe at the amount of work put into all this – whatever _this _is.

"The instrument of the districts' demise," Chentanko says when I pose the question. "What I've taken to calling the "Hunger Games", seeing as food shortages were such a problem during the war. But now it's the districts who will starve."

"That still doesn't answer my question," I retort, only half-paying attention as Daelianne continues to scroll down the pages. "How exactly does it work?"

"Take two children from each district, a boy and a girl – I thought that would be a nice balance. Not unlike what you did with your little execution, Mr President, only this would be on a much, much bigger scale. You see, if we just take kids and kill them off, we give the districts an enemy, someone to unite against: us. So how do we solve the problem?"

I frown, unsure if the question is rhetorical. But Chentanko is watching me expectantly, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. "Give them a new enemy?"

At the same time, Daelianne mutters, "Turn them on each other."

"Both right!" Chentanko attempts to clap his hands with his wrists still bound. "A pluses all around."

"How exactly do we turn them against each other?" I hate the districts, despise them with all my heart, but I can't deny they fought formidably during the war. Each trusted the other entirely, each lent their help to others in need; people with that level of companionship would be hard to make into enemies.

Yet, of course, Chentanko responds with, "Simple. We take their children, people who haven't yet truly devoted themselves to their parents' alliances. We stick them in an arena of sorts, and tell them only one of them can come out alive. Last man standing wins."

Silence reigns as I stare at him, shocked and slack-jawed. The full meaning of his words reverberates through my skull, becoming louder and louder with each passing echo. _Children murdering children. Children murdering children. Children murdering children._ An idea I can't bear to contemplate.

Chentanko must see the doubt on my face, because he continues, "Not young children, of course. They wouldn't know what to do. I'm thinking teenagers. Not only are they more mature, while still qualifying as kids, but most will also have a bit of fighting experience already, with the rebellion and all." He leans forward, the volume in his voice dropping until he speaks barely above a whisper. "And then there's the fact that we'd be getting rid of their parents' legacies in every possible way."

Unwittingly, the rebels' earlier song returns to me. Sung specifically to children, guaranteeing they'll never forget why their parents died – and ensuring the younger generation will be there to reinstate the rebellion when they're old enough. A potential threat, just like the first rebellious acts before the war. I've learned how dangerous potential threats can become. "So, the children," I say, still desperately trying to sort out my mixed feelings. "You're saying thirteen to nineteen?"

Daelianne gives me a sharp look, as though she can't believe I'm actually considering this. Chentanko, on the other hand, can't hide the hint of pleasure in his dark eyes. "Twelve to eighteen, actually. Nineteen feels just a bit too adult."

"But twelve-year-olds?"

"Only if you want to include Abyess Exxe's son in the mix." My mind, so filled with other information, can't place the name, so Chentanko continues, "How often do you believe she sung him that little song?"

The smiling woman's son; now that would be justice. "And the children are picked, what, at random?" I ask, trying to distract from the surge of rage and macabre joy I feel at the thought of a rebel's child's life in my hands.

Chentanko smiles. "Something like that. Of course, there are a multitude of other details, but, in essence, this is what the Hunger Games boils down to. I'm sure if you have any more questions, your vice president can fill you in."

Daelianne turns her deadly gaze on him. "And what, exactly, are you implying?"

"That you have my computer and all the information on it," Chentanko says, nodding to the laptop. His left eyebrow and the right side of his mouth twitch upwards in unison. "Whatever did you think I was implying?"

I barely register their short exchange, still too focused on the possibilities presented to me. _The Hunger Games._ Two children from each district all killing each other in order to survive. Hatred of the Capitol would dry up quickly to make way for their new enemies. Sure, it needs some tweaking, but the basic idea . . . well, it could work.

_But is it right?_ a small, righteous-sounding voice in the back of my mind speaks up. _More deaths? More _children's_ deaths? Is that really what you want?_

_Is it?_

Yes.

It's this, or war, all over again. More good Capitol citizens dying. Remember: peace is always, _always _better. Peace, no matter what the cost.

So, let the Hunger Games begin.


End file.
